


cover of a magazine

by deernymph



Category: Ancient Egyptian Religion, Original Work
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, M/M, Modern Era, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn Magazines, Romance, if you don’t know a lot abt Egyptian mythology you can still read tbh, in which set and horus literally drink alcohol in every chapter, its not really talked about but w how much horus drinks in this fic.......
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2019-04-21
Packaged: 2019-05-24 00:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14943819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deernymph/pseuds/deernymph
Summary: Heru froze. Set’s hand was in his back pocket in some strange, possessive gesture, but he only gave one chaste kiss near the ear. Closer, he had an underlying smell of something familiar and antique—of winds carrying the scent of spices and sand and the air after harsh rain. His touch was fleeting, and when Heru reached up to touch the skin he had kissed, he was gone.In the dim lights, he was left with faint annoyance and something else: an emptiness, a hollow spot in his chest, a wanting for something he couldn’t have.or:Thousands of years after fighting for Egypt’s throne, Heru is lonely and directionless. So is Set. Meanwhile, Hathor just wants them to stop being idiots.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve wanted to write this for way too long aaaaaaa  
> I finally said fuck it one day and wrote it so here goes  
> Also: I used the spelling “Heru” instead of “Horus” because, well... it looks nicer... that’s it I just like it more....

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store flickered, their tones less white and more blue than anything.

There was a line of magazines carefully put there early in the morning by someone earning minimum wage. They had put a simple spell on them, so the models on the covers moved, animated. Sure, the city was filled with those who had seen generations of humans die and be born, but the headlines on all the magazines were no different than in Miami or Los Angeles:

_56 HOT SEX TIPS! (moves to blow your body and mind!)_

_Flat Abs, Tight Ass: Get Both with this Workout!_

Among the too-bright lights, a god knelt to stare at the bold letters.

Heru, in his 5,000 years of living, had never really been one for cigarettes or the sweet smoke of a hallucinogen, or knocking back pills that promised relief. His addictions were odd and often fleeting, as if the twitching of his hands couldn’t settle on one place for too long. That year in particular had been the reign of trashy magazines.

Human ones had an interesting pattern; prom and fashion trends turned to carnal desires and diets, though the change wasn’t so drastic if one just read the articles. Supernatural magazines had no such transition, because when you lived to be 500 or more you never got to truly be a teenager. There were no concerns about whether your acne was noticeable or whether you were keeping up with the trends...

Heru had spent his teenage years fighting for a throne and getting pinned to the floor in the back rooms of parties, but that was long ago.

Hathor knelt beside him, her graceful form tucking into his side, bare thigh pressed to his. Whereas Heru had some strange bright glow to his skin, she had the soft ears of a cow where her human ones would have gone, the pierced edges of them peeking out from her dark hair. “Oh, get this one,” she decided, pulling a magazine off the rack. Her acrylic nail tapped the face of an angel on the cover, one with long pale hair and dark pupil-less eyes who put one hand on her hip and smiled sweetly. The black print shimmered, _Hymns for Any Occasion!_

“Not trashy enough,” he said, but took it to flip through. “I would rather have 101 sex tips than propaganda.”

She chuckled, shifting her weight on her heels, “If it’s propaganda then it’s not effective. Have you ever met a Christian siren, a Catholic sphinx?”

“I haven’t met many people in the first place,” he admitted, and put the magazine back in its place.

Truthfully, the magazines were a poor excuse at filling up some hole within him. For forever he had simply let fate take him where it wished; to the French revolution, to the silk road, to paths lined with stones and empty temples in Mesoamerica. Now he crashed and burned on the West coast of North America, watching humans grow and live and die, and fate left him with his thoughts.

They were too much. That was why he had let his mother think for him, why he acted on instinct, why he simply said things because they were true and thought nothing else of it. When his thoughts were left to run rampant, he was reminded of a kingdom and a river that used to be his, of red hair and an infuriating bloodied grin, of four smaller smiles that were so different yet so similar to it.

He was lonely. He was lost. The magazines and other addictions brought a stop to the loneliness, and it was as simple as that.

The otherworldly faces of fellow gods stared up at him through glossy paper, and his eyes paused at a magazine that was deceptively simple. The background was a warm grey and against it was Set.

For a moment Heru stilled, his breath caught in his throat and his blood running cold. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, out of fear that he was just mistaken, that it could have been some other redhead, but the curve of Set’s face was undeniable.

The lighting was dramatic, casting soft but dark shadows on his pale face that was turned slightly away. He was wrapped in fur, so that there was only a peek of his shoulder, of the scars interrupting the smooth skin of his chest. His hair was a shock of red that fell back to silhouette his face, whereas the other side was shaved in numerous patterns. The spell put on the cover was subtle; Heru had to lean forward slightly to see Set’s chest rise slightly as he breathed, to see the careful blink of his eyes and the slight smile that overtook his lips.

With an audible thump, another seedy magazine overtook it, and Heru couldn’t help but jump back in shock. Instead of the intimate shadows and fur, Apollo’s haughty grin greeted him.

“No,” Hathor told him, as if she was scolding a child. Heru shot a glare at her, a little hurt, despite himself, by the tone of her voice.

“You act like I’ve been caught doing something bad,” he huffed, pushing off the floor to stand up. “I was only looking.”

“Looking is enough for you,” she said, “you absolute trainwreck.”

He rolled his eyes, and despite the scolding Hathor’s stern expression melted to a soft sympathy. The smile he returned her was involuntary, but when she left him in the aisle alone it faded away.

He shoved Apollo out of the way and among all the neon colors and text, Set stood out in his hands.

  
The night sky had blossomed with petals of blue and purple, and the multicolored street lights cast cerulean shadows on the plastic bags swinging by Hathort’s side. Cars sped by, well past the speed limit since there was no one around to stop them. Through the haze of cool tones, the freckles of Heru’s skin lit up like small forest fires. As his hand brushed by Hathor’s, it cast yellow light onto her skin.

It didn’t feel good to let down his glamor. No one would look twice if he let his skin glow, but he was so used to hiding it that without the mask he felt naked. The whole city made him feel vulnerable and laid bare, and every part of him missed the coast. Palm trees and beaches, where humans burned their skin in the sun and children ran laughing from the grip of the waves. If he closed his eyes there, he could pretend the ocean was the Nile.

Here, no one spared him a glance, because he was just another has-been, a member of an ancient pantheon who didn’t bother to do something with his immortality like the others did.

The magazine was burning a hole in his bag.

Hathor was talking about all the movies he’d never seen, so he interrupted her, “What does Set do now?”

She pursed her lips. “Nothing worth talking about.”

“But enough that he’s on the cover of a magazine.” He thought back to the odd sensuality of the picture, and as the blush gathered on his cheeks he said, “Is he a whore?”

All at once Hathor groaned and stopped in her tracks, underneath a lamp post. The artificial light lit a halo onto the sleek waterfall of her hair, and her shoulders looked bare and orange, the color of clay on the wall of a tomb. “If you’re so curious, then open up the magazine you stole and see for yourself.” He could feel his face burning with shame. “I warned you, but of course you don’t listen,” she shook her head, “you never do.”

So he obeyed, and took out the magazine. The rainbow of lights reflected on the cover, blocking any view of Set’s face, and when he opened it up to look he immediately slammed it shut.

Hathor laughed, amused only for a second before she reached to push his jaw up and close his mouth. “Don’t look so surprised,” she brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, turning away, “you of all people should know the appeal. Besides, he makes good money.”

The paper crinkled under Heru’s grip. “So, what, he whores himself out?”

She didn’t meet his eyes; instead she stared at his hands, and he forced himself to relax. “You should stick to magazines,” she said, and kept walking.

“What is that supposed to mean?” He knew, deep down, and yet the question felt _good_ to spit out.

But she didn’t answer.


	2. one

Hathor looked out for him, but only sporadically. Heru didn’t know what sparked her visits, but after a varying amount of time she would show up at his front door either with a bottle of champagne or an invitation to her house. Often she would talk about their pantheon, how everyone else was doing, but never about how she was doing. Then she would ask Heru, and he would tell her briefly of his life, and then they would get drunk.

To be honest, Heru enjoyed her company, and she was the closest thing to a friend he had. He suspected that she was a little lonely, too, as everyone grew when you got so old.

It had been two weeks since the convenience store, and the magazine he stole laid on his coffee table at home, while he sat among the buzz of a local bar. He’d only opened it once more and, well… he wasn’t proud of his moment of weakness. But it was okay, because it was just photos, and not being over what happened 4,000 years ago was _perfectly_ reasonable—

“Your drink,” the bartender said, pulling Heru out of his thoughts. He murmured a thank you, and the bourbon tasted like nutmeg as it burned its way down his throat.

This was the bar that managed to not depress him, even when drinking alone. There was something about the taste of good alcohol, the shouts of sports fans at the football matches on the TVs, and the low lighting that lit a match of courage inside of him. Yes, he _talked_ to people there. The women who laughed and tried to get him to buy them a drink didn’t seem so scary. Besides, humans gravitated towards him once he got something into his system.

Bravery was already flooding his bloodstream, because it had been a good few weeks. Hathor got him to watch Pulp Fiction and drink wine and the bar was particularly enthusiastic that day, all despite the distressing magazine. Even if he never changed and never found his place in the world, he would have a damn good time, at least.

The weightless feeling in his chest came crashing down when he felt alcohol hit his shirt and seep into the white. “Ah, fuck,” a familiar voice said, and Heru looked to meet dark eyes.

Set looked like on the magazine, except the side of his head wasn’t shaved in beautiful patterns; instead, his red hair had all grown out long to touch his shoulders, some strands touching his nose. An indeterminable expression flashed on his pale face before it was replaced by something more neutral and bordering on a smile. Through the dark lights, Heru could see a slight flush to his pale skin, brought there by what he assumed must have been numerous previous drinks.

“You took my drink, Ru,” he said in the soft, slurring voice he only got when drunk. He slid his now empty glass onto the bar, and leaning into the motion he brushed right by Heru’s side—Heru inhaled and smelled tobacco and faded cologne. When he caught Set’s gaze again, Set was grinning with sharp canines. (Those teeth had dug into his skin before; in his arm to try and startle him, at his hip otherwise.) “Want to buy me another?”

“I shouldn’t.” What Heru should have done was leave, not even wonder what Set was doing at the bar. He should have gotten into his car and driven home, maybe even to Hathor’s place, so she could knock some sense into him. He should have changed his shirt.

“What’s stopping you?” Set had taken a seat beside him, and Heru stared at his hands, the nail tapping the empty cup, the gold on his ring finger. “It’s only a drink.”

And so Set got a martini in exchange for ruining Heru’s shirt. He caught the flash of a smile behind the rim of the glass and didn’t feel so guilty about the wasted money.

Set managed to be as he always was, and yet ever changing like sand at a shift in the breeze. He was short, lithe in a way that hid his strength, his hair was the same shade of spilled blood, and no doubt his scars remained… but he also smiled like he had a secret he wasn’t going to tell and stretched like a content cat, all the stiff shoulders and tense looks from years before gone. He was a sick parody of the magazine cover in his black fur and exposed shoulders and coy smiles, just far more candid and _real_.

“What are you doing here?” The words left Heru’s mouth without a second thought—he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Waiting for a fool like you to pick me up.”

Set was a horrible liar, who looked away very pointedly and managed to summon an air of suspicion during a lie, but Heru went along with it. “This isn’t the sort of place to get a hookup. It’s more a place for fools like me to drown their sorrows in alcohol.”

Set laughed. “Sorrows? Go say that to your mother and she’ll kiss your bruises better.” Through a smirk he took a long sip of his drink. “Princes like you don’t have sorrows, just too much free time.”

Perhaps that was true, but it was also cruel—and a small part of Heru admitted that it was easier to get angry at Set’s words than accept them. “So you have _real_ sorrows? As opposed to my, of course, _invalid_ ones.”

Set, however, didn’t elaborate upon them. He stared at his martini, gripped the stem of the glass and twirled the liquid around haphazardly, so that it swirled like pinwheel galaxies, like the Milky Way on fast forward through a couple hundred millennia. “You haven’t changed, Ru.” He said it bitterly, but smiled like it was a good thing. “What does Hathor see in you, kid? What do _I_ see in you?”

He was, at this point, pissed off. His shirt had begun to stick to his chest, the smell of heavy liquor wafted up to his nose, and Set got infuriating after prolonged exposure. He was some charming jingle played on repeat for hours, an overplayed song on the radio.

Thank whatever deity was feeling agreeable that they rarely encountered each other.

“Hell if I know.” Heru was itching to leave. “Maybe you shouldn’t have spilled your drink on me before asking that question.”

Set’s somber expression was split apart by a satisfied smile. He finished his martini in one sip, and to Heru’s relief, stood the leave—but not before pressing his lips to Heru’s cheek.

Heru froze. Set’s hand was in his back pocket in some strange, possessive gesture, but he only gave one chaste kiss near the ear. Closer, he had an underlying smell of something familiar and antique—of winds carrying the scent of spices and sand and the air after harsh rain. His touch was fleeting, and when Heru reached up to touch the skin he had kissed, he was gone.

In the dim lights, he was left with faint annoyance and something else: an emptiness, a hollow spot in his chest, a wanting for something he couldn’t have.

Later, parked in front of his apartment and mulling over the ruined night, he felt in his back pocket for his keys and found a business card. The laminated paper shone in the street lights like the glimmering part of a CD, and printed was a phone number, an address.

He rolled his eyes and shoved it back in his pocket.

The business card went on top of the magazine, concealing Set’s smile and leaving just his eyes peering over the top. It was terrible, mocking. Just the thought that he would ever willingly seek Set out— _please._

Hathor wouldn’t approve.

Neither would his mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll probably never update this again after this chapter but mmmm it’s the thought that counts y’know


	3. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> managed to squeeze out another chapter!! i actually had some fun writing this, so enjoy ;-)

Heru’s apartment had a wall of glass doors in the living room, and in retrospect it was probably why his place was so expensive. The balcony was long, with space for some chairs and potted plants, and faced the coast, so that when the sun set he got the perfect view of the explosion of color in the sky, how the water turned orange like fizzy soda.

Hathor hated his apartment, but she loved the glass doors. It was the only reason she ever brought the alcohol to his place, and now she inclined on his couch with a bottle of rum in hand, ripping off its top as if it personally offended her. Really, there was an edge to all of her that night. If you pressed her too much you’d be cut, like a finger to a blade. 

He didn’t ask. One learned quickly to not ask, just to ignore.

“Don’t spill that on my _white_ couch,” Heru said, “I’ll kill you.” Any other threats died on his tongue when she straight drank from the bottle as if it was beer. Sometimes she was mild and beautiful, but in that moment she was intimidating. He certainly didn’t want to be whoever had vexed her.

“White couch,” she murmured, “only you would have a white couch.” She sighed heavily and ran one hand through her hair. “I don’t know why I deal with you sober.” Then she handed him the rum, and he poured himself a glass because he wasn’t a _heathen_ who drank from the bottle.

Handing it back to her, he considered: Hathor was very pretty, even angry. Of course, she _was_ the goddess of beauty. Her waist came in thinly and then made way for wide hips and long, shapely legs, and her hair was ebony against her warm skin. If Heru tried, he figured he could wax poetic about her—talk about how the cosmos lay at her every breath, how the planets stopped turning when she held her breath, how the parting of her lips was a supernova.

He should have _wanted_ to have sex with her.

But he didn’t.

After too many drinks and after the sunset had passed he admitted it, but Hathor only laughed at him. When he showed offense, she barked out a laugh, “You’re too gay for that!”

He frowned. “I don’t like men.”

She spun around to fully face him, giving him a look one would give a crazy person. “You had _four_ children with a _man_.”

“That’s—“ He stopped to think of his kids; of their familiar smiles and the red in their hair. “That’s true, but it was one time.”

Hathor rolled her eyes, “Seriously? You probably get off on that nasty magazine you stole, you fool.” Her gaze traveled to said magazine and stilled once it reached the business card.

Ah. Shit. He forgot to hide it. 

Something changed in her face: she went pale for a moment, and then flushed red. She snatched it with a vice grip before Heru could do anything, and she turned even more colors once she saw the numbers on it. “What even is this? _Where_ did you get this? _How_?” Her voice was tranquil, but still as if anticipating something terrible. 

Heru didn’t feel so drunk anymore. “Uh… the bar?” 

“ _Gods_.” Hathor dropped it and held her face in her hands, groaning. Muffled, “You two are talking again?”

“It was more just, I bought him a drink and _he_ gave me his number, I didn’t ask—“ 

She uncovered her face to stare at him with tired eyes. “You do know what a bad idea contacting him is, right?”

“I _know_.” She sounded like his mother, only less demanding and less loving. 

“I know you’re an idiot in love but…” She shook her head. “You’d think after all this time you’d realize, that all you two do is hurt each other.” 

And that settled like a bad taste in his mouth. 

“I know,” he said again, quietly. “You don’t think I know that after all he’s done?” Set was a torrent, a hurricane—he ripped everything in his path apart. Drowned Heru’s father, fought dirty for a throne he had no right to, took a blade to Heru’s eyes. Heru had wanted to _kill_ him. He would have without thinking, given the chance, simply because it felt right at the time.

“If you truly understood that, you wouldn’t keep engaging with him.” And that was pathetic but true—Heru could think about the terrible things Set had done all day, but at the end of it all his mind wandered to how it felt to have his nails digging into his hips, his mouth at his neck. Hathor placed a hand on his cheek and he looked to meet her gaze. “You frustrate me far more than you will ever know, but you always make the right decision at the end of the day. You just… have a strange way of getting there.” She withdrew, looking down to where her fingers were wrapped around the neck of the rum bottle. “I can only advise you to move on from him. Just so you know, though,” she frowned, “it’s a very _firm_ advising.”

Of course her words mattered to him, more than his mother’s, even, but this time they just seemed to ring hollow. He couldn’t help but stare at the shine of the business card against his couch.

  
Softly, she grumbled, “Who the _hell_ even makes laminated cards of their number and address anyway?” And Heru couldn’t help but laugh, because _gods,_ it _was_ so weird and so _Set._


	4. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this chapter, we take a little peek at what Set is up to... :-)

There were about a million places Set would’ve rather been than at a damned party.

Of course, he used to love parties, back when things actually mattered. The chaotic mixture of alcohol and pack mentality was just intoxicating—the stirring of bodies hypnotic, and moments away from the madness even sweeter. But that was back when parties were done correctly. (By _done correctly_ he really meant _organized by himself_. Set _knew_ how to distract people with a good party.) No matter how much he hated it, however, he had to make an appearance, for he was still a part of the pantheon and still a guard of Ra. Apparently those things entailed going to lame ass parties hosted by no-name gods to celebrate who knows what.

Even Nephthys looked bored, leaning her cheek into one manicured hand and looking about languidly. They had both retreated to a corner; it was second nature to still act like outcasts. She caught Set’s eye and smiled.

“How’s your drink?”

His cup was filled with a mysterious purple substance that tasted faintly of medicine. It was disgusting and yet pathetically low in alcohol. “Shitty. Just like this party.” With a bit of effort, he magicked the drink out of existence and pushed himself off the wall they were leaning on.

“Don’t start anything,” she warned, suddenly serious, because it was so _him_ to start a fight and ruin her good mood. Though it would’ve livened things up, he wanted to stay on her good side—at least, for that night.

“I’m not. Just going to find some entertainment.” She said nothing in reply, just nodded, and something horrible settled into his gut. It was the small realization that she believed him; after all, once upon a time he had only kept promises for her. Guilt came over him. The feeling just made him want to get drunk even more.

So Set wandered into the sea of marble columns and gold. The foreign realm held enough resemblance and nostalgia to be dangerous, with all its potted greenery and too-familiar architecture, but it didn’t irk him. (That was a lie. The whole affair set him on edge, made him want to bare his teeth and do something regrettable. He simply squashed the feeling before anyone, even himself, could notice it.)

There was no alcohol anywhere. Instead, he found his sister.

For a moment he thought she was Nephthys, and it scared the shit out of him how identical they were. Same pouted lips, midnight hair, blue (where had he seen that before?) eyes. Though Isis bore his love’s face, she held none of the same affection for him. Her lips were already tilting in disgust, and Set expected her to rebuff him. But she stopped just before him, looking with a critical eye.

Oh well. At least he found his entertainment.

(Really she scared the hell out of him— _no_ , suppress that too.)

“Brother,” she hissed it, and the silver around her neck glinted like scales.

He allowed a smile to slide onto his face. “Sister. You look beautiful.” She was dressed in white. (Her son’s color.)

“Stop.” _There_ it was. “Don’t act so innocent, _Setekh_ , I don’t want your pleasantries. I’m only speaking to warn you. Your actions have been shameful.”

For once, Set had no idea what he had done. His confusion must have shown, even if only for a second, because Isis’s face turned flushed with anger. “You! You’ve terrorized my family enough, and now you‘ve begun to corrupt my son again.”

 _Shit_. The bar. The stupid _business cards_.

The words came out before he could even think, reckless and dirty, “There was no corruption. I’ve never done anything he didn’t allow,” a smirk, “or anything he didn’t enjoy immensely. Besides, all I did this time was talk to him.”

“I know what game you’re playing. And I’ll be _damned_ if you take the one thing I love away from me.” Her fingers twitched, but she would never lay a hand on him. “Speak to him again and I’ll see that you never have a place in this pantheon. Do you hear me?”

“Crystal clear, sister.” Why was he sweating? His role in the pantheon meant nothing to him. She could dangle it over his head all she wanted; it would change nothing.

She left without another word, disappearing into the crowds.

It was just like old times. All at once, he felt odd, bitter, on edge. The young gods around him were so foolish, so naive, drunk off of a power they would soon lose. And though he knew, looking down at his hands, that hadn’t changed in the past millennia, they looked tarnished in comparison to the other gods. The cracks and lines in his palms outlined the deeds of centuries past and served as a reminder of what he really was. What Isis saw him as. What Heru saw him as.

Sometimes, in moments of madness, he saw dried blood there, still beneath his fingernails, trailing down to his wrists.

It only took Set a moment more to collect all the pieces of himself and fit them back together. The altercation was nothing—just an overprotective mother barking but never biting. If anything, it got his heart beating a little faster. Yes, that was it; Isis had given him the kick start to his night. Something to simply leave him excited.

“Set?” Nephthys had followed him. It hit him all at once, how gorgeous she looked in that red dress with her lips painted and her eyes softened with worry. Her waist tapered in thinly, then out to hips, like some graceful Grecian vase. And the dark column of her throat always did look lovely thrown back. Why not, he thought, why not. “Was Isis—“

He kissed her, and it wasn’t perfect but it was a well-enough distraction. Gently, she pushed him away and said, “Is this really what you want?” She knew he was broken. That lovely woman, she didn’t want to take advantage of him.

So he smirked and shrugged. “Sure it is. Let’s leave this place.” Maybe she could make him forget that his talk with Isis, with Heru, had even happened. She could make him forget how much of a waste that night had been, and all the nights before that.

At that, she relented, and gods bless her, he _did_ forget, though just for a moment.

The next morning he was listening to a familiar voice on the phone and making bad decisions; just what he did best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m sorry if this was sort of like word vomit! when i write Set he’s just so complex that he kinda possesses me and i end up just puking out all his crazy thoughts onto the paper ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> and for the record, Set/Horus is endgame, he and Nephthys just have a complicated relationship that i am very eager to explore (and destroy >:-) )
> 
> and finally, sorry for the long wait! inspiration is a fickle woman, and she does not like to visit me often... not only that, but my life has been crazy and my mental health keeps me from writing as much as i’d like. i’m proud i even managed to squeeze out this chapter, lackluster as it may be.


End file.
